


what can we do to restore

by orphan_account



Series: Moments [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Experimental writing, F/M, Freeform, Non-Chronological, Probably a little OOC, and it's happy in the end, but there's lots of angst in the middle, i messed around with timelines A LOT, killian's pov, sorry - Freeform, the violence is rather abstract, this is for my CSSS, this is my first time writing cs, very late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hush falls over the small cabin, and for a millisecond she falters, the knife that she had begun to clean clattering to the floor. Then she scowls, sweeping it up, and he can almost see her walls rising again. For the first time in a year she is only the Swan, a bloodthirsty pirate who will not let herself feel anything.</p>
<p>“It’s been… fun to know you, Captain Jones, but I believe that this mutually beneficent endeavour has outlived its usefulness.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(or yet another cs pirate au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	what can we do to restore

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, Agent! I'm sorry this was so late, but it's here now! So I hope that you enjoy it. I must confess that this writing style was a bit of an experiment for me, so I hope it's alright. I would also like to point out that I have never been in love, so this is all guesswork. Title is from Paramore's "We Are Broken".

_Moments_

 

**What Can We Do to Restore**

 

The first time he sees her, she has her sword at her throat, a dangerous glint in her sea-green eyes. The tip is digging into his skin, to the point where he can barely _breathe_ without blood welling up. All around him, his men – a loose term, as they are loyal to the Queen—are dead or dying, and he the only survivor. She looks like the cat that just caught the canary, and her crew are already beginning to loot his vessel, snatching away anything that could be the least bit valuable. They rifle through the pockets of his crew, uncaring of the blood staining their clothes. They’d clearly do anything for a profit. He doesn’t know why she would ever let him live—it’s not as if he has anyone that would ransom him, not since…

 

No. He won’t think about that.

 

“Surrender,” she demands, and somewhere within him he finds the defiance to glare, to spit in her face. Her first mate starts forward, but the pirate captain holds up a hand and the sharp-featured woman retreats. The captain awaits his answer with a matching glare, wiping the spittle off her tanned face.

 

“Never,” he manages, as a small trickle of blood runs down his throat.

 

^.^

 

But perhaps this is not the _first_ time he’s seen her.

 

He was young and foolish and proud, not even half a man, and he was hungry. The palace, he had heard, was warm and rich and full of food—the best solution.

 

They’d dragged him, kicking and screaming, out of the castle, and he could do nothing but clutch at his aching stomach and curse the world. They hadn’t even let anyone know, given him a chance to plead his case. The servants had simply dragged him out, as if their kingdom wasn’t based on love, and generosity, at least according to Queen Snow.

 

Screaming at the heavy skies, he’d cried and screamed and cursed the world—cursed his father, wherever he was, cursed the king in his big, fancy castle—cursed the—

 

“Here” she’d whispered out of the dark and the rain, hood pulled low over her face. “I saw you in the kitchen this morning.” The hood slipped as she backed away, and he caught a glimpse of her face through the rain. And he realised with a start, as she pushed a small, heavy basket into his hands, too heavy to hold anything but money, that this was the princess. This was the daughter of Queen Snow and her husband King David. He’d just been cursing her father, for the entire world to hear—and _by Jove_ didn’t she have the prettiest eyes that he’d ever seen.

 

^.^

 

She keeps him in the brigging, surrounded by moulding biscuits and rotting vegetables. It’s cold, and dark, and he’s pretty sure that he heard a rat scuttling around in the corner, but when he raises his concerns, she shakes her head.

 

“We can’t very well house you with the crew, can we, love?” she scoffs, tightening the ropes around his wrists—painfully so. “You’re lucky enough I let you live.”

 

_Lucky?_ He wants to growl. How is killing his entire crew, all loyal men to the crown, most with their own families, but letting him live _lucky_? But he’s bound and gagged, and she’s clearly carrying a sword, so he contents himself with glaring again. For a moment she stays there, resting on her haunches. Her sea-green eyes (no, not _gorgeous_ , or even pretty—and certainly not the _prettiest green eyes that he’d ever seen_ ) rest on him, checking his restraints one last time. They meet his, and a flash of familiarity passes between them.

 

After a moment she rises and hurries out, followed closely by her first mate—where did she come in?—a sharp-featured woman dressed all in red. She throws him a contempt-filled look over her shoulder, baring almost too sharp teeth in a silent growl before slamming the door shut and casting him into darkness.

 

And the darkness overwhelms him as the walls press in on him, and it fills him, choking him. Why does it have to be so bloody _dark_? Memories of red and screams and _blood_ invade him, and he screams through his gag and tries to ignore the tears streaming down his face because _dammit_ wasn’t that period of his life over? Wasn’t he supposed to be strong?

 

^.^

 

It’s years before he encounters her again, this time of the deck of his own ship, thrown together as unlikely allies, and he has to admit that, deep down inside, he’s almost glad. She’d set him free eventually, stranded on an island some call Neverland (others call it Hell, but don’t let Pan hear that). And sitting at his feet was a basket filled with coins and bread, and his own weapons returned. And he’d most certainly appreciated the weapons. But the other contents of the baskets—that brought back happier memories, memories of a time _before_.

He’s torn out of his thoughts as swords clash and metal sings, and he watches him shock as she fights off a soldier that he had neglected to notice. Another charges, bloodlust and fear intermingled in his wide eyes, and the now-pirate focuses again. This is no time for ruminations of the past or old quasi-enemies. She looks to him, and he looks to her, and for a moment he sees the princess again, proud and defiant and compassionate. She smirks slightly, then the flash is gone, and they turn once to the fight.

 

^.^

 

The day the kingdom fell was the day he lost his brother.

 

Granted, he hadn’t known him long, a month at the very most. But finally, here was _family_ , someone who actually gave a damn whether he lived or died, and it was torn away in a moment. One bloody, terrifying moment.

 

The new Queen’s men had marched down the street, with their red-blood tunics and their red-blood plumes, breaking into homes and demanding that they pledge allegiance to their ruler. The Queen of Hearts, they called her, and it was said that she had ripped out the hearts of their beloved monarchs as they lay dying at her feet.

 

Liam had been brave, aye, but foolish. More so than his younger brother, who had believed that breaking into the palace was a good idea. So when the soldier had burst into their home—shack?—he’d believed he was invincible, stood and told him in no uncertain terms where he could put his new allegiance. King David and Queen Snow were the true monarchs, he’d declared, and their daughter Emma after them. So if a “Queen of Hearts” wanted to act like she was the ruler of Misthaven, then—

 

The blood blossomed out from his chest and it was all Killian could do just to _stay quiet_ and _stay hidden_ in the cupboard and _no, no, he couldn’t be gone_. But through the cracks he could see the light slowly fading from his brother’s defiant eyes, and every part of his soul strained to reach him.

 

The moment the soldier left, purse a few doubloons heavier and bloodlust temporarily sated, he’d stumbled over to his brother’s lifeless form, gangly limbs catching and scraping at the cupboard corners, before losing his meagre breakfast by the door. Why hadn’t he done anything? He was already thirteen, nearly a man _why hadn’t he done anything why wasn’t Liam responding oh by all the gods **why?**_

 

^.^

 

“I had a son, once,” she murmured, words half-slurred by rum. “His name was Henry.” She’s sitting close enough that he could touch her, if he dared, and he can see every detail of her sun-kissed face. He can smell the alcohol on her breath, and he’s sure that she can smell it on his, but neither can bring themselves to care. Another victory (another splash of blood on his soul) begs to be celebrated, one year from the first time that they had seen the benefit of fighting together.

 

“Your turn.”

 

He wants to ask her more about this son of hers, who the father was, what this child was like, how she lost him, and it frightens him. He hasn’t felt this, this _caring_ since Milah, and he doesn’t want to know what that means (even though he already does, deep inside a heart that he thought was too dark and twisted to ever house such emotion as this again). Instead, he takes the bottle and swirls it around experimentally, drains the last of it into his mouth.

 

“I had a hand once,” he jokes, not jovially, but the alcohol lightens his load a little, blurs the edges of his razor-sharp agony. She kicks him. “I had a lover, once. Her name was Milah.” He wishes there was more rum in the bottle, but it’s gone, and not nearly enough to dull the agony that flares up every time his first love’s memory is revoked. The moment she died is clear as day in his mind, the light fading from her eyes as that _crocodile_ she had once called her husband escaped his vessel.

 

The pirate captain leans her head against the swaying wood of the wall and sighs. “It’s always the best people that get the worst lot. My parents were murdered, and they never did anything but _help people_. You lose your lover,”—at this, her words are strangely bitter—“and your hand, and God knows what else, and you were just an innocent child trying to survive.”

 

“How did he die? This Henry?” He’s not the innocent child that he used to be, and neither is she, and he’s certainly not one of the ‘best people’. He knows what it’s like to lost someone, that ache inside, the burning need to be reunited. He understands.

 

It takes a moment for her to answer. “He… he didn’t belong on the sea. It’s too dangerous, this life. He was only a year old, and his father left us once he found out what I am. So I left him with Red’s grandmother. She’s the fiercest woman I know, so I thought it would be safe. But nothing’s ever safe from _The Queen of Hearts_ or her crazy daughters. It was a werewolf attack, they said, as if she didn’t know how to deal with them. The truth was, they found out about him somehow, and now, he’s gone.” She’s so close to tears, barely holding herself together, and he knows the feeling. “What about your Milah?”

 

“I met her in a pub, after Neverland. She was gorgeous, and witty, and everything about her seemed to just radiate light. She was married though, with a child, Baelfire. Her husband was a bloody coward, and she wanted to escape. She had dreams, so many ideas and talents that were wasted with her cooped up in that town. We ran away together, and we loved each other deeply. Then one day, when we were buying supplies, her husband appeared. We went back to the ship with him—there was something we had that he wanted, and he claimed that he had moved on. Once he had what he wanted, he stabbed her in the heart and left before any of us could do anything about it.”

 

Neither of them burst into dramatic sobs—they’re stronger than that, they tell themselves—but they can feel some weight lifting off their shoulders, because here, finally, is someone who understands. He averts his eyes after a moment, and she clears her throat.

 

“Everyone you could ever care about dies or leaves you,’ she announces after a moment. “Isn’t that an optimistic outlook we’ve been provided with? Dead or gone.”

 

They’re both drunk, drunker than they should be, but neither of them are on watch, and they passed the line between enemies and acquaintances long ago. But still they’re not friends, not whatever this strange pull he feels toward her means. These confessions are already words that they know they should regret, and yet in this moment they cannot bring themselves to care.

 

In this moment, her eyes are so close, and their noses are brushing, and he can feel her soft rum-flavoured breath tickling his lips and—

 

^.^

 

“You’re to kill the Swan,” the Queen had told the young captain, and he felt a shiver of disgust race up his spine. But there was no way he could reveal his true emotions in the Queen’s presence, not with so many guards around. Instead, he forced himself to nod and salute, the simple movements almost physically painful to his pride. But if he did this, he might gain her trust, just enough to run a sword through her chest as her soldiers had done to Liam.

 

“I’ll provide you with a crew, to replace that motley bunch of lizards you call soldiers.”

 

He resisted the urge to rise to their defense—not that he cared for them. He made a point of not caring for anyone. But they were a good crew, as sailors went, loyal, too, and he’d rather not go the trouble of training a new bunch. Especially not the Queen’s lapdogs, ready to listen and snoop and constantly report back to her. It was true, though, that he needed a better crew if he were to take on the Swan. No one who encountered her survived, and the mystery that she had shrouded herself with only played on his own crew’s superstitious ears. Some liked to believe that she had o be the embodiment of the sea itself—beautiful and unpredictable and deadly. Yes, he needed all the help he could get.

 

“You must not fail me,” the Queen of Hearts had said.

 

^.^

 

Well, he’s certainly not _succeeded_.

 

^.^

 

Together, they are unstoppable, the Hook and the Swan, blight of Misthaven. It was easier to remain together, the beginning of a fleet in a way, together terrorising their enemies. She never keeps her bounty, he’s found. It’s stored away until the next time they make port, and from there transported to the areas of Misthaven most touched by the queen’s greed. In many places they called her an Angel, a far cry from the bloodthirsty persona she had adopted after her life was rooted up by a bloodthirsty queen and her daughters.

 

He finds himself craving her in more than the physical sense, wanting to shield her from harm though he knows that she can more than protect himself. And slowly, ever so slowly, they lose the walls that had been erected to protect them. He can see hints of the princess that she had been, always the subject of gossip in the stables that he had somehow managed to find a job in. _Did you hear what the princess did today,_ they would giggle, _she went and nearly drowned herself in a creek over yonder. Practicing swordfighting in extenuating circumstances, she said when they found her._ And he finds that the fire in his heart, straining for revenge, for payment, for pain to be felt, has dulled somewhat, replaced by a warmth that thrills and terrifies him and makes him feel some semblance of joy.

 

Their days and nights are filled with whispered secrets and soft caresses. They find solace in their shared stories—his Liam and Milah and the Queen and the parents that he hardly knew, and hers a child named Henry spirited away by his father, and bloodstained memories of the king and queen that had been dethroned years ago.

 

It’s not perfect, but it’s beginning to feel like it could be.

 

^.^

 

He finds that though his fury has begun to fade, hers is still as harsh as it was the day that it was triggered.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t hate Queen Cora with all of his being, or that he would hesitate to kill her if he got the chance, but he can’t help but think that he would give it all up to spend the rest of eternity with the salty sea air in his face and Emma at his side. But she has a plan to get into the castle and take her revenge, one that doesn’t involve a way out. And no matter how much he tries to tell himself that he’s still the same pirate, that he doesn’t care, something aches inside him when the first he learns of this plan is her goodbye.

 

She’s in her cabin, loading on of her guns, and her obvious surprise at his sudden presence proves that the goodbye wasn’t even intended.

 

“I’m leaving,” she says, “to kill Cora. I think you understand.” She’s all bravado and no emotion, but he can see the fear behind her eyes and the accompanying resignation. She’s not coming back, and they both know it. But it’s a one-woman mission, and she won’t listen to reason, won’t bring anyone else to help if something were to go wrong.

 

She won’t listen, and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how he can convince her to let him go with her. He can’t lose her, not to Cora, not someone else that he lo—

 

“Why do you even care?” she demands, and the answer leaves his lips before he can even think to hold them back.

 

“Because I bloody love you!”

 

A hush falls over the small cabin, and for a millisecond she falters, the knife that she had begun to clean clattering to the floor. Then she scowls, sweeping it up, and he can almost see her walls rising again. For the first time in a year she is only the Swan, a bloodthirsty pirate who will not let herself feel anything.

 

“It’s been… fun to know you, Captain Jones, but I believe that this mutually beneficent endeavour has outlived its usefulness.”

 

“Emma,” he sighs, reaching for her, but she pulls away, looking at him as if he were a stranger. He wishes with all his might that he could take that deadly sentence back.

 

“I think that it would be wise for you to depart, _Captain Jones_.”

 

He kisses her, surging forward and catching her familiar lips in his, and for a few blessed seconds all he can feel is her, moving in sync with him, salty tears dripping into their conjoined mouths. He tries to memorise this moment.

 

Then she pushes him away, turning back to her weaponry so that he can’t see her tears.

 

“It’s been fun, Captain Swan,” he manages to say, “I hope we meet again.”

 

“Don’t count on it.”

 

He leaves, and the latch of the door behind him strikes something deep within him. It’s all he can to not to turn around and beg for her to reconsider, to forget anything he may have said. But he is Captain Hook, and he is dark, and cruel, and cold, and she is worse. There is no way it could have worked out anyway.

 

He doesn’t need her.

 

^.^

 

She’s dead before the week is out.

 

He’s in an alehouse when he hears. It’s loud and cheap and his crew like it well enough, and he supposes it provides an adequate enough distraction from the slowly healing hole in his heart. So he downs the liquor and ignores their rowdy drinking games – their way to fit in, they’d argued, and pretend they weren’t pirates. He can’t say that he blames them.

 

A table over, a group of palace guards are deep in discussion. He pulls the hood a little further over his face ; he’d really hate to be recognised so early, not nearly drunk enough to even begin to forget. But he might as well listen in; gather news from the palace. And if a certain blonde pirate happens to come up in the discussion, then he can’t exactly fault him for it.

 

It’s not because he cares, because he doesn’t. His in the moment confession had been nothing more than a misjudgement, born of the whiskey he surely must have consumed while in town. Whether she lived or died is none of his concern, as she had made so very clear not long ago. But he does have a vested interest in the state of the queen. And what else could they be talking about, but an attempt on the life of their beloved monarch?

 

“Are you certain?” one of them gasps – a private, surely, new to the army – and the other one nods vehemently, almost spilling his mead in the process.

 

“I saw it with my own two eyes. They dragged her in to the throne room—caught her stealing or something – once a pirate, always a pirate, I say. And then she and the queen had this massive fight – it was awesome, swords flashing, knives flying everywhere, a few shots fired—and then the queen’s daughter, the dark-haired one, ya’know, not the red-head, just came up behind her and slipped a dagger prettily between her ribs. I almost felt sorry for the girl – she looked so shocked she didn’t manage to kill the queen.”

 

“So that’s it, then? No more raids or warrants for her arrest?”

 

“It’s over, mate. The Swan is dead, no doubt about it.”

 

His chest tightens painfully, and it’s all he can do not to jump then in that moment, demand more information from them. But what would that achieve? He’d be found out, his crew, too, most likely, and he’d die helplessly at the hands of some idiotic half-trained soldiers. No matter what might have happened, he didn’t want to die. After all, he always did excel at saving his own skin. Always an escape route, always another way.

 

That’s what makes the Swan different—what _made_ her different.

 

That line of thought is leading to dark and dangerous places. He can feel tears pricking at his eyes, the ache in his heart demanding to be felt. But really, what did he expect? She walked in there without an escape plan, with nothing but a few concealed weapons and a desire for revenge. There was no other possible outcome. But that didn’t lessen his pain. In that moment, it felt like nothing would.

 

Except, perhaps, the alcohol.

 

^.^

 

He had asked Emma once, deep into the night, how she thought she would die. She’d shrugged, laying her head on his shoulder. He knew she’d probably thought about it; in their line of work, it was almost impossible not to.

 

“It’s not something I like to talk about,” she said sleepily. “But it’s likely I’ll go down in battle, being a pirate and all.” She’d yawned, snuggled closer to him, her breathing evening out.

 

“I hope you don’t, love,” he’d whispered into her hair after a few minutes. She didn’t reply, and he took that as his cue to continue. “I hope you live a long life, forever out of reach of the Queen and her agents.” He laughed mockingly under his breath. “Now I’m just dreaming. Neither of us are going to survive this and I bloody know it. You know it. But still…. it’s a nice sort of future to envision, isn’t it? You and I, growing old together. I never thought about growing old when I was younger. Bloody fool I was, then.”

 

She’s stirred in his arms, blearily opening her eyes. “Were you talking to me?” she whispered. “I must have dozed off.”

 

“No, love,” he’d grinned wryly, placing a kiss atop her hair. “Go back to sleep.”

 

Then, the idea of growing old had been nothing but an abstract ideal, lost in the high of having her next to him. Now, it is all he can think about. It’s easier that way. If he imagines what could be, he won’t have to face the reality, won’t spend his time attempting to recall the exact expression she wore the last time he’d seen her, or worse, imagining the last breath she took, her sunshine hair spilling out over the ancient tile in a room that was meant to be hers.

 

No, sea green eyes on a little girl with dark hair and a bright smile, born by the sea and raised in the waves, growing older as time passed. More children after her, each one as precious, and after them grandchildren, and a quiet home far away from Queen Cora for them to live out their days.

 

It makes his heart ache.

 

^.^

 

 

For a while, he flounders, not knowing what to do but unable to return to the sea with the passion that he had possessed before. When he stares at the sea, her eyes glitter back at him, and when he fights, he can only see her sinking to the floor, the Lady Regina’s dagger between her ribs. His men are restless, confused by his sudden change. He doesn’t blame them.

 

Unable to bear the memories, he sells his ship, once more important to him than anything else in the world, and sets off across the country. He’s alone, as he was before her, bereft of anything but as many gold pieces that he could subtly carry and a few choice weapons. He won’t go completely defenceless—he’s a pirate, he knows better.

 

But what’s a pirate without a ship?

 

_What’s a princess without a crown?_

Moving on is going to be more difficult than he thought.

 

^.^

 

A few years after Liam’s death, a curse in the guise of a blessing appears to him.

 

_JOIN THE ARMY_ , the poster read, _HELP DEFEND YOUR KINGDOM_.

 

He was still the young and foolish boy that he had always been, filled with some vision of working against the Queen from the inside. It was the perfect plan, he’d though, bright-eyed and idealistic. He’d thought he’d take his revenge.

 

Then Milah happened, and he’d put that on hold. But before long the burning desire had forced its way into his heart, darkened by memories of soft lips and her husband’s scaly hand tightening around her throat.

 

Suffice to say, he’d had that beaten out of him soon enough.

 

 

Revenge was futile, he had learned, and that painful lesson would stick with him until his death.

 

^.^

 

The room is damp, noisy, and cold, but there’s wine aplenty and no one bothers him. He’s made his way to some sort of village – Sherwood, or something – and it’s as far from the sea as he can get. Here, at least, posters of the Swan are replaced with someone called “Robin Hood”, and his crew aren’t present to give him pitying looks.

 

 

There’s a squadron of some sort in the corner, dressed in green and all carrying bows, but they don’t look military. There’s a freedom about them that wouldn’t be allowed in Cora’s army, and by the amused looks that they’re sending their leader and the posters on the wall, he’s almost certain that he’s heard of them. The Merry Men, they’re called, but not all of them are male. He counts at least four or five women, one of them wearing the strangest armour he’s ever seen. Two others are playing with small children, and he can’t help but stare for a moment—wouldn’t they know better than to bring them to a crowded bar? But the greenshirts around them have their weapons within arm’s reach and an air about them that suggests they will not allow anyone near these children. Before he can stop himself, his gaze rises to the women with them, and his heart stops in his chest. One of them—her back to him, hood falling back—has hair the exact shade of Emma’s.

 

He’s fooling himself, he knows, letting the hope that he thought was extinguished rise again. But he cannot tear his eyes from her, from the child in front of her whose smile is hers. She is _dead_ , he chides himself, as he tries to look away. He’s frozen in place, torn between his failing attempt to move on and the empty space in his chest that is craving for her warmth. Then she turns, and his heart starts again, all his breath leaving him, leaving him gasping.

 

It’s _her_ , from her hair to her eyes to the little wrinkle in her forehead she claimed was from hours of protesting study sessions. It’s all he can do not to run across the room then and there, to grab her and kiss her and just _hold her close_ , to tell her that he loves her, no matter the consequences. But she's dead, he reminds himself, dead like his parents and Liam and Milah and everyone else that he had ever lost. If they hadn't returned from the abyss that he had lost them to, then why should she? And if she was alive, then why hadn't she told him?

 

She stares back at him, the playful smile that she had worn for the child -- her child? Henry? -- slipping off her face.

 

"Killian," she breathes, rising painfully to her feet. The woman beside her, all darkness and beauty, tries to stop her, but she shrugs her off. "I'm fine," he can barely hear her say. "I can make it across the room by myself."

 

And then she's coming closer, the painful hitch in her step obvious to anyone watching, and he finds himself rising to meet her. After an eternity and yet sooner than he can say, she is in his arms, and he holds her close, mindful of her gasp of pain. He breathes her in, burying his face in her hair and letting out a pent-up sob.

 

" _Emma_."

 

"Killian," she whispers back. "Killian, I'm so sorry."

 

He hushes her, drawing back to look at her face, to take her in again and fill the void in his chest left by her absence.

 

"You're alive."

 

"I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you, but they needed me for the rebellion and I couldn't tell anyone and the  _Jolly Roger_ was pirated by Blackbeard-- I couldn't find you."

 

"It's fine, love," he sobs, drawing her hair away from her face with his hook and kissing her softly. It isn't, truthfully, but that's an issue for another time -- all he cares for the moment is that she is alive and in his arms. They are beginning to attract attention, greenshirts reaching for their weapons as they ascertain his threat level. He doesn't care. he cares for nothing but her in his arms, her fingers running through his hair, tears running down both their faces.

 

"I love you," he whispers. "I love you and I know that you don't believe in love anymore, not after Henry's father, but I lost you, and I don't bloody care if you'll never love me in return."

 

"Killian," she grins, silencing him. "I love you, too."

 

And in that moment, he can feel his world beginning to right itself again.


End file.
